‘The trustees meet here. Even the principal is allowed to enter only by invitation.’ Fleur indicated the largest painting. ‘That formidable old chap with mutton chop whiskers is Sir Milo Hopes, founder of St Herbert’s and first chairman of the trustees. That is the house I was born in — and there you see the Hanging Wood in autumn.’
Two landscapes faced them. In fading light, Mockbeggar Hall was all flaking stonework and shuttered windows, a study in grandeur tainted by decay. But his attention was seized by the other painting, captioned The Hanging Wood. So this was where Orla’s brother was last seen alive, and their uncle committed suicide. At first glance, the woodland scene, with dense foliage glimpsed through morning mist, seemed tranquil, if sombre. Dew glistened on bracken and ferns, a bird drifted between the branches. But the fallen leaves were curled and dead, the small pond looked stagnant, and a fox sneaked through the undergrowth with something in its mouth.
‘The style is familiar.’ He pondered. ‘Not Millais, by any chance?’
She clapped her hands in delight. ‘Brilliant, really well recognised! This pair of pictures are not at all well known. I’m not a fan of his work, too often it seems cloying. But he must have been reading ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ when he painted the Hall — it’s as if he anticipates our family’s financial downfall. And The Hanging Wood haunts me. Not his best work artistically, you can see he rushed it. But I like the lack of sentimentality.’
He suspected Fleur Madsen didn’t have a trace of sentimentality in her DNA. How could she, if she’d annexed her ancestral home to a caravan park?
‘I haven’t ventured into the wood.’
‘Not many people do. It’s fenced off to deter trespassers, but frankly there are plenty of pleasanter walks on the doorstep. Even on a day like this, the Hanging Wood seems gloomy. When I was a child, I didn’t play there, and to this day, I’ve never walked through it on my own. Millais stayed at the Hall a few times as a guest of Sir Milo. He was a dog lover, and he paid Millais a small fortune to paint the family pets. Those pictures are hack work in the style of his chum Landseer, but Milo proudly hung them in the dining room. I prefer these, which he dashed off and presented to Milo as a gift.’
‘This was after Millais ran off with Ruskin’s wife?’
‘Oh yes, forty years later. You know the story? Ruskin never consummated the marriage, although Effie was a lovely woman. They say he couldn’t cope with the sight of her pubic hair.’ She smiled and tapped her forehead in a parody of belated awareness. ‘Doh! Of course you will know, you’re a famous historian.’
He pointed to a door at the far end of the room. ‘Shall we?’
‘Of course. There aren’t many perks for trustees, I’m afraid, but at least we have our own private garden.’
They moved outside into a tiny knot garden, crammed with herbs and screened from the rest of the grounds by a tall box hedge, into which was set a small bolted door. An aroma of marjoram wafted through the air, strong and sweet. She sat on the solitary wooden bench and beckoned to him. He joined her, keeping a few inches between them. She wanted something from him, and experience had taught him to be wary of attractive women accustomed to getting their own way.
Fleur smiled. ‘Very Frances Hodgson Burnett, don’t you think?’
‘A secret garden, yes. Designed by Gertrude Jekyll, like the walled garden?’
‘Actually, no. There’s a rural legend that Beatrix Potter organised the planting, though I haven’t found any evidence to back it up.’ She put on a wistful little-girl face. ‘I yearn to find some truth in it. The Blessed Beatrix is a much bigger draw than Gertrude. Tourists are so besotted with Peter bloody Rabbit, we could fill our accommodation with pilgrims from Japan.’
‘Would the trustees be willing to sacrifice their privacy?’
‘A price worth paying,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the sacrifice would be mine. I’m the only regular visitor to this little haven. It’s so close to home, and believe me, if you live on a caravan park, you need to escape, every now and then.’
She made it sound as though she inhabited a dilapidated mobile home surrounded by washing lines and snivelling toddlers. Perhaps even a luxurious architect-designed mansion in a secluded enclave in Madsenworld represented a comedown from the splendour of living in a stately home, however dilapidated.
‘Now Mockbeggar Hall is renovated-’
‘It belongs to the company. And it’s not a home anymore. The ground floor and part of the grounds will be opened to the public. Soon, visitors will be roaming around the nooks and crannies I loved as a child. I’ve spent years planning the project together with my husband and brother-in-law, but now it’s almost complete, becoming involved with St Herbert’s has made a refreshing contrast. Which brings me to why I interrupted your afternoon.’
She leant towards him, closing the gap that separated them.
‘After we met, I started wondering if you …’
She paused, and he knew she was teasing him. He waited.
‘Yes, I wondered if you would care to become a trustee of the library? I’d love to have you on board. We have to make sure St Herbert’s is fit for purpose in the twenty-first century. Lottery funding for building maintenance and more acquisitions is an option, but we need a higher profile. An eminent historian, working here on his latest book — what could be better?’
Daniel murmured something non-committal. Ungrateful to refuse on the spot, but there was no way he wanted to join the great and the good of Cumbria. He’d sat on too many committees in Oxford and London; he was determined to remain his own man. He temporised, hoping she was smart enough to realise he didn’t want her to push it.
‘Of course, you need to think it over,’ she said. ‘But I do hope I can tempt you.’
When she looked into his eyes, he felt again the magnetic force of her personality. Fleur Madsen didn’t take no for an answer.
‘I promise to get back to you next week.’
‘Fine, thank you.’
She touched him on the arm as they rose from the bench. As they retraced their steps, his eye was caught by a flash of sunlight on a window looking out on to the parapet on which Aslan Sheikh had stood the previous day.
‘The staircase outside the trustees’ meeting room,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t lead to the gallery of the Old Library, does it?’
‘No, it’s another route to the offices and guest accommodation.’
Daniel indicated the window glinting in the sun. ‘Fantastic views of the walled garden from a room like that. And of this garden too.’
‘Yes, that was poor Orla’s office, actually; it’s next door to the room I use for St Herbert’s business when I’m over here. She said she found the view quite inspirational — pity it didn’t inspire her fund-raising work.’ Sensing Daniel’s disapproval, she added, ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be unkind. Her death was a ghastly tragedy, but I have to say, I’ve always regarded suicide as a selfish act. Poor Kit was stunned by the news.’
‘He was close to his stepdaughter?’
‘He had a great deal to cope with because of Niamh’s alcoholism, but he never let either Niamh or her daughter down. After Niamh died, he put Orla through university, and made sure she wasn’t short of money, even though he’d started a new life with Glenys.’
‘Do you know any more about how Orla died?’
‘No, it’s such an extraordinary thing to do. On her father’s land, as well. None of us can quite believe it.’ And she did sound bewildered, although he also sensed that something else was bothering her. ‘Of course, we’re desperate to find out more about what happened. Mike Hinds must be beside himself.’